


Blood of the Covenant

by mistymountainscold93



Series: Blood of the Covenant is Thicker than Water of the Womb [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Some historical accuracies, some historical inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistymountainscold93/pseuds/mistymountainscold93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a cold evening in April 1631 and no bells are ringing throughout the cities of France. </p><p>Inside the palace, the air is thick with distraught wailing as the king mourns a stillborn daughter. </p><p>He refuses to see the body. </p><p>Outside the city, four of his best men curl their bodies around a small, sleeping babe. Love doesn’t let them miss the obvious features she inherited from her father, and fear doesn’t let them miss the obvious traces of her mother. </p><p>Her father’s arms tighten around the sleeping baby as one of her new uncles sighs. “Well. She can never go to court.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: 1631

**Author's Note:**

> The four musketeers and Constance Bonacieux rescue a baby and proceed to have no idea what to do with her.

There were no bells on Easter in Paris that year. Early April was supposed to be a time for celebration, but the whole city seemed still and dark that year. No one was breaking their fast in an outward celebration, for fear that the King would find out. He had, after all, banned all celebrations in the wake of the pre-dawn hours of Easter Sunday itself. People across the city, from all walks of life, still broke their Lenten fasts that grey morning; they simply made it quiet and much more subdued than the past Easters. Mass was still said that morning throughout France with an added Requiem for the baby born already in the hands of God during the night before.

Rumors swirled. Stories that the baby hadn’t come yet, that somehow the information was being misinterpreted. Stories that the baby had been born alive but malformed and was being hidden somewhere in the countryside. Stories that the baby had been kidnapped and the embarrassed musketeers and royal family had concocted a story to cover for their blunders. As all these stories passed over the desk and through the ears of the Cardinal, the stories that interested Richelieu the most involved stories of the baby being cursed or stolen on the basis of illegitimacy. But because of the nature of the situation, even his hands were tied.

The Cardinal’s interest in the Queen’s sudden pregnancy had increased slowly through the trimesters. As his suspicions grew that this mysterious development could be a way to rid himself of the Queen he had come to view as a threat to his position as de facto ruler of France more than just a mere nuisance, so had the Queen’s mistrust of the Cardinal. Often his spies were sent to her rooms in the form of nurses and midwives and maids and occasionally they got too close for her comfort. When the Queen had entered confinement with only a select few ladies allowed—selected by the Queen herself—the Cardinal had begun machinations to take down the Queen, her bastard, and the man (truly _any_ unfortunate man) involved in the affair—be it real or an invented tool for his own purposes.

Anne was not naïve and unaware of the Cardinal’s plan. While he was plotting to kill her, her innocent child, and a man who was probably also an innocent the Queen herself was planning a way to rid herself of suspicion and save her child and his father. Carefully and relying heavily on her newly-hired maid Constance Bonacieux, who had sought asylum and employment with the Queen following her husband’s death (which Anne recognized as the Cardinal ridding himself of someone who had served their usefulness) and was a dear friend of the Musketeers, Anne was in constant correspondence with Aramis and his brothers-in-arms, planning a way to allow Aramis to raise their son while the Cardinal and the King and all of France was told and believed that the child had been born grey and dead. Their plan was thoroughly discussed—Anne was amused to note that letters which began simply between Constance, Athos, Aramis and herself expanded to include d’Artagnan and Porthos—and hinged on loyalty and the simple fact that the child was a boy. A life as a musketeer’s bastard would be no easy life, but it would be a much safer and still happier life than a Queen’s bastard.

The four Inseparables, along with Constance, were frantically preparing to take the child and raise him in La Fère. Athos had had his family’s home rebuilt, and as it was not far from Paris proper it would be easy for the five of them to raise a child, with the help of a wet nurse and a few tutors along the way. The plan itself was simple: Constance would be in attendance along with a handful of trusted midwives when the baby was born, and before anyone could claim to hear a baby’s cry or catch a glimpse of the royal child, he would be smuggled out to the house at La Fère, where Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan would be waiting. From there, they would carry out life as though one of Aramis’ many infamous mistresses dropped a child in his lap suddenly and unexpectedly the day before Easter—the child, of course, would never be able to have the same birthday as the deceased royal child to avoid any suspicion from the Cardinal.

When the news arrived in La Fère from Constance that the baby was on his way into the world, the four musketeers rode to La Fère and put the final finishing touches on the nursery Athos had had built when the house was repaired. The baby arrived just after midnight on Easter Sunday and, as they had predicted, the King had been devastated. His wailing had an effect on even the Cardinal’s hard heart and deterred the First Minister from any further immediate action against the Queen. Constance, meanwhile, was riding out with the baby to the other side of the city, where Athos had sent his carriage to retrieve her. The baby had remained mercifully quiet throughout the ride, though all Constance had to offer was a single soft blanket and a hat knitted by the Queen herself as a gift to her child. Constance was relieved that the child was healthy—the midwives had quickly checked over the royal child—and that the extraction had gone so well. Her relief was encouraged by news that the Cardinal was dropping his charges and his case against the Queen. However, when the carriage finally arrived in front of the manor, Constance’s stomach dropped. Making her way inside the house, she was met in the sitting room by the four men dearest to her, all of whom stood when she entered. Aramis looked as though he might faint as his dark eyes remained fixed on the small, gently squirming bundle in her arms. Constance offered him her best encouraging smile.

“The Queen is quite well, Aramis, she did an admirable job this evening.”

Aramis nodded slowly, feeling as though he were in another world. “And my son? Is he healthy?”

Constance bit her lip uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other under the gaze of the four men. “Well, about that…” Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan took an unconscious step forward as Aramis crossed the room entirely and scooped the baby out of her arms, gingerly unwrapping the blanket swaddling his child. Constance cleared her throat as she watched his hurried motions. “The baby’s perfectly healthy. It’s just that the child is…”

Aramis gazed down as his child, lying in his arms and gazing up at him with eyes just like his own, with fuller black eyelashes fluttering sleepily against rosy, round cheeks. “I have a daughter,” he said slowly, his mind spinning as he tried to process what he was seeing.

The others joined him in his watching; the four curled their bodies around the small, sleeping babe as though already protecting her from prying eyes. Love didn’t let them miss the obvious features she inherited from her father, and fear didn’t let them miss the obvious traces of her mother.

Her father’s arms tighten around the sleeping baby as one of her new uncles sighs. “Well. She can never go to court.” Athos shot d’Artagnan a glare, and the youngest musketeer shrugged.

Porthos held out his arms, taking the baby from her father and gently bouncing her. Constance, sensing the need for Aramis to be with his brothers, excused herself under the pretense of going to fetch a wet nurse to feed the child. When she was gone, Aramis rubbed a hand through his hair. “What am I going to do with a daughter?”

“The same thing you would do with a son,” Athos stated plainly, moving to pour Aramis a drink. “And we will remain here for you and for her.”

Aramis looked from Athos’ determined face to Porthos’ excited gentle gaze upon his daughter to d’Artagnan’s young enthusiasm. He smirked. “The poor thing will be smothered under the attention of three such overprotective uncles.”

Porthos laughed. “What about her overprotective father?” Aramis shot his friend a grin.

A huff from the doorway alerted them to the reappearance of Constance with a wet nurse. “And an overprotective aunt,” she said with a small frown that did little to cover her growing smirk. “I’ll not be forgotten about.”

“Never, my lady,” Aramis quipped with a little flourish, giving Constance a small bow before retrieving his daughter from Porthos and carrying her gently to the wet nurse. “Madame, you would do me a great service by feeding my daughter. Her mother dropped her in my lap this very evening, just a day or two old, and I am more than willing to raise her but alas—I am a bachelor myself. I’d be willing to pay you however much you desire if you would help me provide for my child.”

The young woman smirked, waving him off as she gently scooped up the baby. “Nonsense, monsieur. My brother found himself in a similar situation a few years ago, only he did not have anyone to help him and had to give the child to the care of a convent. I would do anything to have helped him keep his child then, and so it is my honor to help you with yours now.” As Constance led her away towards some privacy, her soft murmurs to the girl drifted back into the room. “Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing in all of France…”

It was then Aramis realized he was rather in over his head. But as his brothers all clapped him on the shoulder and offered him congratulations, and Constance drew him into a hug and gushed over his daughter, he realized that he was much more excited for the ride.  


	2. The Wandering Widow—1652

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Paris 21 years later, Madame Marguerite St. Simon comes to terms with widowhood, copes with doting friends and family members, and finds herself in a disheartening situation heading home to her childhood estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the time jump! Also, see the end of the work for more including a SUPER APOLOGY. You guys are the best readers ever and your reception has been nothing short of lovely!

The church was a flutter of dim, nervous conversation in the minutes leading up to mass. Everyone was participating in low, awkward conversations with one another—the only exemptions being the group of still black-clad widows huddled in the front rows of the church. Requiem masses were not often so well-attended, but the men being commemorated that otherwise cheery morning in late May were special.

A year prior, a select envoy of Musketeers had been sent to Marseilles to squelch a rumored uprising. The Captain had assumed that the rumors were just that, and so he had sent a mixture of new recruits with a handful of seasoned veterans so that the trip could be used as a training exercise. There had been no survivors. Now, memorializing those men and releasing their widows from their prescribed year of black-clad mourning, the church was packed with people honoring the fallen heroes who had died protecting their King and country. Many of them were dear friends and family, who knew either the Musketeers themselves or the grieving widows personally.

In the rows where the widows sat shoulder-to-shoulder, many were fidgeting nervously with black handkerchiefs and shuffling under the weight of the gazes being leveled upon them by the various mourners and spectators in the back of the church. For thirty dead Musketeers only ten of them had widows. Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, the women took up two rows in the very front center of the church. While many of the present people remembered the fallen men as heroes their widows remembered various types of husbands. Many of those widows had been matched with the man before he was a musketeer, and knew the roughness and isolation of being a wife not by choice. A select few, only about three out of the group, had married for love and felt the awkwardness of the less heartbroken widows personally. Those three sat huddled together in the second row, pressed against the edge of the pew and bracing themselves for the end of the mass.

When the priest finished his words, the widows would be removed from their mourning. Most of them would leave the church and dress in colorful clothing, move back home and enjoy their freedom until they found themselves remarried. The few who felt the loss of their husbands like a hole in their chests would try and find a way to move on. Grieving would not end for them here. As the priest prepared to begin mass, the whole church tensed as though on the very edge of all possibility.

The service finally began, the priest beginning his Latin chanting and the church still hovering on the awkward edge of anticipation, dread, and indifference. Then, in an instant, the tension was sliced in two by a shrill, piercing cry.

Heads in the back of the church began straining to find the crying babe, while those seated in the middle rows split evenly between copying the rabble in their search and pointedly not searching to differentiate themselves. In the front of the church, the widows who normally would not be seated so preferentially all turned to glare at one of their number, blushing bright red under her black lace veil on the end of the second pew. After a moment, the crying diminished as the baby was carried out of the crowded church, but the young widow was still antsy, her gaze drifting over her shoulders to follow the path her child just took in the arms of one of his godmothers out of the church. If mass ending was looming over her head before, now it couldn’t come soon enough.

The young veiled widow with the fussy baby had been one of the lucky—now unlucky—few who had married for love. Her father and her other male family members would settle for nothing less; to say that she was a well-protected and well-served daughter would be a serious discredit to her well-armed family. There had been no attempts at arranging anything, no talks about womanly duty and propriety. The fact that she married at sixteen along with most other girls her age was simply because of her own decision and the love of a good man. The fact he was a musketeer and a second son of the nobility only made her family—especially her father—that much more accepting of the man who had won her heart. They had been married for four blissful years before she finally fell pregnant the night before he went away to Marseilles. Now twenty-one and widowed, young Marguerite St. Simon only felt like herself when she held the last remnant of her beloved Jean-Robert in the form of their three-month-old son Mathieu. Though she had the support of her family both of blood and of choice and a firm faith in the Catholic Church the loss of her partner in life and love was devastating. Though the looming social expectations and sharp reality of her new life alone that would be heralded by the ending of mass was intimidating to her, when the priest finished his words and the Eucharist had been taken she was the first person out of the church and making a beeline for her son.

Frédérique Sartre had been the one of Mathieu’s three godmothers and two godfathers who removed him from the church. She was an enthusiastic, compassionate sort of woman with two children of her own already and she was one of Marguerite’s dearest friends. Amid a sea of black-clad mourners filing out of the church, Frédérique was easy to spot by the light pink neckerchief she had tucked around her neck and into her bodice.  Without a word to her friend, Marguerite scooped her still fussing but no longer crying son out of Frédérique’s arms and cradled him against her, tucking his head under her chin and murmuring a soft lullaby into the fuzzy patch of hair tufting over his head.

“Yes, hello, Margot.” Frédérique rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the tender smile growing over her face. “Just ignore me, I’m not hurt.”

Marguerite smiled despite herself, opening her eyes and shaking her head slightly at her friend. “Frédérique, I am surprised it took you this long to realize! I only keep you around to hold my son when I cannot. Now that you’ve served your purpose…” Both women shared ear-splitting grins before Frédérique scooped Margot into a hug.

“How are you truly doing, dearest?”

Margot shrugged. “It still doesn’t quite feel real. I half-expect him to come home tonight and tell me there’s been some kind of terrible misunderstanding.”

Frédérique offered her a sympathetic smile and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Come to dinner tonight. Hélène and Roland are coming with their brood, and we can invite Marie-Jacqueline.”

“No, no, thank you though. Mathieu and I will be celebrating our first evening out of mourning tonight with a simple dinner and a bath, I think. And perhaps after I have lulled him to bed I shall continue the celebration with a bottle of honey-grape brandy my Papa sent from the estate back home.”

Her friend studied her face for a moment before her shoulders dropped and she nodded. “Take care of yourself, sweetling. We would be remiss should anything happen to you or your precious boy.”

Margot’s arms tightened around her son, and the stilted nature of their conversation began to stir like guilt in her gut. She pressed her lips into a thin line in an attempt to give Frédérique a reassuring smile and turned to leave, only to come face-to-face with the rest of her family-by-choice.

Marceau Sartre was Frédérique’s husband. They too had married for love and were constantly fawning over one another like young lovers. Marceau was certainly the more reserved one in the relationship, but he had no less heart than his wife. Where Frédérique was never ashamed to call someone out on their behavior or fret over her loved ones, Marceau preferred to offer gentle words of encouragement or small smiles while soothing his wife. Though Frédérique and Margot were bosom friends, Margot had been introduced to Marceau first out of any of her chosen family. He was a musketeer, having been recruited by Margot’s father after a fête in Paris that featured a shooting competition judged by her father himself. He had been an astoundingly good aim and it hadn’t taken him long to be commissioned into the musketeers. He had met Frédérique because she had then been married to a much older man who worked the leather to craft the musketeer’s pauldrons, and it hadn’t taken Marceau long to scuff his into a state where he was unsatisfied. The leatherworker had passed away and after Frédérique’s year of mourning, she and Marceau had quickly married. Now they had two very young children only just a year apart and still fawned over one another. Still, as Frédérique was one of Margot’s dearest friends, Marceau had quickly become a brother to her. It was Marceau who she bumped into when she turned.

Both of them gave nervous small laughs as they steadied themselves, both checking her son to ensure his safety in her arms. “So sorry, Margot.”

She flashed him a smile. “Quite alright, Marceau! No harm done. It’s I who should be apologizing anyway…I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Understandably so,” he said quietly. “Are you and Mathieu joining us for dinner?”

She noticed how he looked beyond her to Frédérique, but gave him a smile and shook her head. “Another time, Marceau. For now, Mathieu and I would like to spend this evening in quiet.” As though on cue, Mathieu began crying in his mother’s arms. Tightening her grip, Margot slipped past Marceau and beyond the grasp of Hélène and Roland Beauvilliers, more of her family-by-choice who were both protective and concerned and not likely to let Margot get away if they suspected her inner toil. With a few more muttered promises that she’d be around later, she disappeared from their sight and began her walk home, navigating through the streets and reveling in the freedom she found in the action.

A year of black clothing and solitude, being cooped up either in her home or church—which she would arrive at in a carriage—had not helped her process through the grief she felt for her husband. Days spent alone in the home she and Jean-Robert had dreamed of raising a family in only solidified his absence in her life, doing nothing to balm the pain she so desperately felt without him. The only positive that came as a result of her solitude was that no one could question her grief for her husband.

Mathieu fussed in her arms and she pulled herself from the pain that throbbed through her chest with every beat of her lonely heart to focus entirely on him. Her son, with bright clear hazel eyes and light brown hair—his father’s hair—featuring soft wisps of her curl, was the only thing that seemed to make any sense anymore. The constant love and support of her friends and family felt almost out of place. The small whispering voice in her head led her to believe that she was being overdramatic—she had been lucky to be loved at all, shouldn’t she cherish it and move on? The sympathy in their eyes often served simply to twist the knife in her heart all the deeper.

By the time she had made it from the church to her home, Mathieu had begun to fuss in her arms again. Between hushing him and fumbling with the knock, it took her longer than it should have to notice the three figures sitting in her home.

When she paused in surprise, she found herself suddenly relieved of her still-fussing son and being guided to a chair. “Captain, I wasn’t expecting to see you here so quickly!”

The Captain of the Musketeers smiled down at her, resting a hand on her head and ruffling her black curls which had come exposed after her black lace veil slipped down to her shoulders. “Dear Margot. We were sitting farther back than you and didn’t have anyone trying to hold us up as we got away. I’m only glad you didn’t accept their offer to dinner or else we would have been sitting here much longer.”

Margot looked to the other two inhabitants of the room and felt her mouth tug into the closest thing to a real smile she had worn in some time. Before she had known the Captain as a Musketeer, she had known him as “Uncle Charles,” and before she had known his wife as the confidante to the Queen herself she had known her as “Aunt Constance.” Their daughter, Marie-Jacqueline, was her best friend and favorite cousin. When she had married and moved to Paris, her aunt and uncle—who had moved officially from her eldest uncle’s estate only a few years earlier than her—had fully taken her under their wing and regularly visited her and her husband or had them over to their apartments above the garrison. Over the course of her year of widowhood Margot had spent more time with them than any of her other family members largely because of their proximity. She had to admit it was nice to have them so close. Especially Marie-Jacqueline, who was cradling little Mathieu in the corner and had somehow managed to get him to stop crying. Margot was a year and a half older than her dearest friend, but they had been thicker than thieves as children growing up on their uncle’s estate. Marie-Jacqueline had been Margot’s first choice to be godmother to her son, and it had been a choice that she had not regretted. Still, after her long and emotionally draining day she _had_ truly been looking forward to spending an evening alone. Somewhat predictably when she made that desire known only Marie-Jacqueline looked put-out.

Her aunt and uncle left with hugs and kisses and what comforts they could offer. Her cousin approached her with her son and a scowl. “It’s not good for you to be alone now, you know that.”

Margot smiled and she shifted her son into her arms. “Perhaps no…you always knew me better than I knew myself. However ‘good for me’ or no, I still desire it. And I think I’ve earned a little self-indulgence after the events of today.”

That at least earned a knowing smirk from Marie-Jacqueline, who planted a kiss to her godson’s forehead and a gentle squeeze to her best friend’s arm before slipping out after her parents. No sooner had Margot closed the door behind the d’Artagnans than there was a knock at the door. Heaving a sigh, Margot went to open it and shoo away her guests only to find her elderly landlady at the door.

“Madame de la Jardin what a surprise. I have no dinner prepared though you are most welcome…”

“There is no need, Madame St. Simon. I am here for your rent.” Margot’s eyes went wide. After she had become widowed and lost her husband’s salary, Madame de la Jardin had waived her rent for her year of mourning. She had thought to get a job now that she was officially free from mourning but had no money as of yet to give to her landlady. Telling her this, she was disappointed to see her landlady frown primly. “I am afraid I cannot afford to wait any longer, Madame. Therefore you must pack up your things, take your son, and go.”

“Go?” Margot took a step back, reeling. “Where am I to go? I am a widow, Madame!”

The landlady gave an indifferent shrug. “Your father still lives on his brother’s estate. I suggest you begin by seeking refuge with him.”

Madame de la Jardin left then, leaving Margot to gather what little she could. Hailing a carriage, she loaded her few things along with herself and Mathieu and began the ride to her childhood home. Behind her, the sun set on Paris and her old life. Snuggling Mathieu closer to her, she fell into a fitful rest and dreamt of what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, SO sorry it has taken me so long to post this! So much has happened in my life in the past few months. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed or left kudos-- I have appreciated every single one! Please let me know what you think and I will do my model best to make sure you get the next chapter sooner rather than later!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction shared to the public in a while, first published to this site, and first for this fandom. 
> 
> That being said, please let me know what you think! Your readership is what will keep me writing!
> 
> Also: I don't own any of the characters you recognize! Or any of the plot you recognize, for that matter.


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